


Dennis Goes (American) Psycho

by kinkyhux



Category: It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia
Genre: A lot of sex, Alcohol, Angst, Drugs, M/M, Mental Instability, Mutual Masturbation, Read notes for better description, Sex, Violence, Violent Sex, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-09
Updated: 2017-05-09
Packaged: 2018-10-25 19:45:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10771158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kinkyhux/pseuds/kinkyhux
Summary: In civilization there have to be some restraints. If we followed every impulse, we’d be killing one another.Miss Manners (Judith Martin)





	1. New Religion

**Author's Note:**

> "Abandon all hope ye who enter here," is an incredibly pretentious way to begin a shoddy, self-indulgent novel about a bigoted murderer. That's why I begin with, "Dennis Reynolds is a god." It gets the point across-- and is even a little humble.
> 
> This work of fiction is merely _inspired_ by _American Psycho_. I did not frame it around the plots of either the film or the novel. However, I did take ideas about murder and stuff from them, considering the intent. Complete with vaguely accurate titles to the chapters.
> 
> I wholeheartedly detest _American Psycho_. I genuinely read the trash book and I regret every second I wasted on it. DO NOT READ _AMERICAN PSYCHO_ , PLEASE. Save yourself the trouble. Just watch the movie. (IF you can handle listening to a white man talk about killing (mostly) women for 104 minutes, set to disappointingly classic music. That's pretty much all it is lmao.)
> 
> I do not think Dennis is actually capable of murder, so feel free to read this as if any actual violent acts against other characters are unreal; that Dennis has deluded himself just like the rest of the gang, but in a whole other special, violent way. (This interpretation IS accurate to _American Psycho_ itself, so it works out!)
> 
> Finally: Murder is bad. Hurting people is bad. American Psycho is bad. But Dennis Reynolds is bad, too, so... it makes sense. I won't say I had fun writing this, but it definitely gave me a linguistic challenge, trying to put the "classy" in senselessmurderbook. WITH LITTLE TO NO BIGOTRY/SLURS/HATE SPEECH. Incredible. Ellis asked, "Could it be done? A quality read?" and I did it. I think.
> 
> Enjoy.

Dennis Reynolds is a god.

His greatness is an infectious disease, a toxic gas, a symptom of the human condition’s need for transcendence.  He is on another plane of existence; a vacant shell on the Earth while his hearty soul roams the universe. Men and women are destitute to any subsequent sexual rapture. He has crafted his aphroditic physique with the sole intention of being unavoidably, painfully, doubtlessly perfect.

Even greater than his body--an otherwise insurmountable task--is his mind: cunning, efficient, and exquisitely unclouded by both emotion and inhibition. He owns himself as white men to slaves and beasts to cowards. He is the ruler of the kingdom of his body, and the world of his mind. Supreme nobility, not by birthright but by design. Nature’s prized possession.

Dennis wakes up on a Tuesday at noon, hung over enough for a few pills and a face wash before his shower. There are certain natural imperfections, Dennis has come to find in his 37 years. He aims to eliminate all faults and failures, to free his physical being of them. Unfortunately, not everything has a cure. Only prevention and precaution. Temporary solutions; it all feels like one big joke on him.

Dennis pours soap in his dry hands, grimacing. If he waits until he’s in the shower, his pores will not receive the special attention they deserve, and without a deep cleanse he is helpless against post-party acne.

He showers (exfoliate, shampoo, condition, in-shower body butter). He lets himself dry while he lays out the day’s clothes on his neatly made bed. He’s in the mood for dark, despite the weather, so he mentally scans his wardrobe and thinks he’ll be able to satisfy his mood. Then he shaves; moisturizes his face, hands, anywhere else tight and dry.

His make-up for the day will be primer, concealer, foundation, eyeliner, lip balm. His eyelashes are already dark, his cheeks already hollow.

He’s chosen Trooper’s _Thick As Thieves_ to carry him through his morning routine, underrated classics playing from the speakers beside his bed. He finds himself staring into the bathroom mirror, fog fading into clarity from the center out, thoughtless. 

> _I'm running hot and my motors shot_   
>  _Drivin' crazy_   
>  _I'm blowing smoke and my brakes are broke_   
>  _Drivin' crazy_

Dennis Reynolds is an empty engine, sputtering, derailing on an already tired road.

Mac knocks on his bedroom door once and barges in, talking. Dennis drowns out the sound of his voice by focusing on the music, nodding his head to the beat as he drops his towel to the floor and goes in search of the right underwear. It’s supposed to be sunny and warm, so he can’t wear any thick fabric, but his outfit is dark, so white would be uncomfortably different. He goes for a soft, cotton pair of forest green _Hanes_ and turns around to see Mac’s red face still stammering at the sight of his naked body.

Mac is gay, but he’s deluded himself to the point of believing that he isn’t, and that praying to his Christian God will keep him that way. He’s deluded himself about a lot of things. He must be very good at it. Dennis knows that, if Mac had simply worshiped _him_ from the start, he never would have felt so ashamed of his desires, and would be kissing his cock any chance he could get. Then again, Mac practically already worships him, even as he squeezes his eyes shut and tries to convince Dennis he’s smart and capable and independent through worthless, poorly constructed trials.

“Go for it,” Dennis tells him, even as Mac is mid-explanation, and Mac peaks open one eye to find Dennis clothed and brushing past him.

“I’m not even at the best part!” Mac says, enthusiasm spilling over and mixing in with Dennis’ annoyance.

Dennis rolls his eyes. “After you somehow manage to seduce this cashier, she’ll...what? Give you all of the money from the register without question? And then have sex with you? You’re an imbecile. If you need cash, you should do your goddamned job. Go turn off the music and bring me my keys?”

Dejected, Mac does as he’s told.

Dennis has no grasp on how vacant he is, but he assumes it’s not important because no one has ever felt the need to resist his will. Dennis doesn’t think that Mac is beneath him, he just simply hasn’t attained perfection. No one has, in fact, except for himself. Mac’s less appealing qualities are, for the most part, at the hands of fate. Where would the fun be if Dennis’ prolific advantages were _common_? Supply must always be less than demand, or there will be no profit.

Dennis has a clinical understanding of human connection. Conversation is a diagnosis. Sex is a state of mind. Love is a series of regrets. Friendship is what grounds Dennis to the Earth, keeps him from drifting away like a forgotten balloon. He’ll admit he’d be nothing without those who love him, but without them he would still be himself. Of course he’d be nothing in the sense that-- a king never has an empty kingdom. But who is to say a servant can’t be a lent hand? Or that a peasant can’t eat the same dinner as royalty? Rules have never been logical, always selfish. Dennis is lower-middle class. He knows what it’s like to eat pasta every night for a month while the paycheck sits in the hands of his boss. When he was a child, he had everything he could ever want and then some, but adulthood brought him down to the dirt and dirty, and he ate the mud on his plate, and he was grateful for it (even if he thought he deserved better).

Charlie is drifting in and out of sleep outside of Paddy’s Pub when Dennis and Mac arrive. He blinks away his dreams when Dennis kicks his arm.

“Rise and shine!” Mac says, helping Charlie off of the ground. Dennis supports him at the shoulder.

“You smell like shit, dude,” Dennis mutters. “Shit and ass and weed. It’s terrible.”

Charlie clears his throat and asks, “What time is it?”

“Almost one-thirty, I think,” Mac answers, looking to Dennis for confirmation he receives in the form of a shrug. “You been out here all night?”

“I can’t believe you had weed and didn’t tell us!”

“No, dude. I fell asleep at like four and then there were some kids smoking a joint over me. They burned me with the joint, too. Right on my ass--”

“Put that away and open up.” Mac and Charlie giggle like children and Dennis stares blankly at them, confused. “What are you-- Oh, for the love of God, that doesn’t even make sense in a sexual context!”

Dennis Reynolds is an esoteric monster.

Four hours later, Dee is mustering up enough strength to actually make someone a cocktail. She had the potential to be like Dennis, but she didn’t start caring as early as Dennis did. Dennis still loves her, mostly because he has to, or he’d kill her. He has to love all the people in the bar for that reason. It would be too easy for him to slaughter everyone he comes across. Temptation waits in a pulse.

Sometimes he dreams of killing Mac by lethal injection. Petting his hair as they lock eyes. Watching death drain the color from his body. Sadness in his eyes clouding over. His skin going cold. Mac _wants_ to be there, dying in Dennis’ arms. Dennis thinks he’s supposed to die, too, in the dream, but he never does. It’s murder, not suicide. It’s meaningful, not cold-blooded. Mac wants out, Dennis helps him. Death is a symptom; everything’s a symptom.

Dennis knows he’s not as much as he could be. It hurts to think about, but every so often he finds a new flaw to obsess over. He’s changed so much about himself over the years. Occasionally he will look at pictures of himself as a kid, to remind himself of his identity. He hates it, but he can get caught up in his desires easily, and he can’t afford to lose control, wanting what he wants and being what he is.

Dennis believes that the purpose of his life is to do something profound. He believes that waiting in some dark corner of his existence is a moment that will mean something.  
  
He hopes it changes him. He hopes it makes it all so much easier than it is now.


	2. Personal Victory

They get high as shit in their apartment, and it feels like high school again, but they’re too old to go arson the football field or swat cats off of fences.

Dennis feels good, calm. He looks over at Mac, who won’t stop fidgeting.

“What’s wrong?” Dennis asks. He’s sure he doesn’t care, but his brain is tumbling faster than his mouth.

Mac runs his hand up and down his thigh slowly. Dennis fixates on the movement. “I’m kind of horny. Are you horny?”

“Yes. Always.”

“Can we watch some of the tapes?”

“You said you hated the last one.”

“Then we won’t watch that one. Or any of the ones that are just ball shots. I want to see everything.”

“Put in Danielle, I made it last week. Camera was on the dresser.”

“Is she blonde?” Mac asks.

“No,” Dennis bites. “Does Danielle sound like a blonde name? Put the goddamn tape in.”

They take a few more drags from the over-packed one-hitter as the tape skips the boring beginning part. Mac hates the DENNIS System, which Dennis couldn’t care less about. He still wants to prove its genius to him, but he isn’t sure that there is more he can do to that effect.

Mac unbuttons his pants, navy blue and a little too long at the end, a little too tight at his middle--just enough to be annoying. He lifts his hips to pull them down and off, but leaves his underwear on. He kicks off his shoes next, and his pants fall to the ground. Dennis almost comments on his bizarre inefficiency, but then Mac sits cross-legged and puts a hand on his dick, motionless, and Dennis feels himself give up completely at trying to understand the man next to him.

Dennis doesn’t think he wants to until he looks at the screen again and sees himself shoving his cock down Danielle’s throat. Mac likes it, likes that he can only see her head, Dennis’ hands tangled in her dark hair. He’s probably imagining that it’s himself, chocking on Dennis, getting pushed around. Mac likes the way Dennis breathes, moans, tells Danielle she’s a whore. Dennis wonders if Mac would still like it if he killed her and kept going. Snapped her neck and kept pushing into her.

Maybe it’s because he’s high, but Dennis doesn’t really like that idea. It’s the first time a fantasy has been too much for him. He feels good about it, like maybe he’s getting better.

He’s not. Mac whines next to him and he traces the hard line of his erection. “You mind if I get it out?” Mac asks breathlessly, looking at the ceiling.

“No. Me too.”

“Is that, like, gay?”

“Mhm.”

Dennis settles for getting his sweats below his ass, then starts stroking himself to hardness, eyes unfocused. He’s listening to Mac, his breathing and the sound of his skin. It feels like a dream, and his chest tightens. The room grows hot and he can feel Mac’s heartbeat, the air leaving his lungs, like it’s his own.

He realizes Mac is watching Dennis fuck himself into his own hand. He’s not even helping himself anymore, just watching two different versions of Dennis get off. He wonders what it’s like to be so unaware of oneself. Mac has no idea about anything. He’s lost in what he wants and who he wants to be.

Dennis can’t think about anything but what he is. He’s a golden god, elite, perfect. He’s sick, a monster, lonely.

Mac is dumb and happy. God, sometimes it sounds better than the responsibility of self-absolution Dennis carries.

Dennis turns to Mac and watches his lip fall from between his teeth, his jaw drop, his hand pick up the pace again. They look at each other for so long Dennis forgets he’s even aroused. He wonders if this is the beginning of the dream where he kills Mac.

“May I?” Dennis asks, already reaching for Mac’s dick. Mac stutters and quickly realizes he has nowhere to go. Not that he wants to go. Dennis knows he’s everything Mac wants. He knows and yet he does this to him; swings his legs over Mac’s and rests against his thighs, takes their cocks together in his hand and rubs them both into bliss. His mouth rests an inch from Mac’s, temptation he never takes advantage of. Dennis leans in again, but Mac still holds back, frowning a little. “You’re a good boy, Mac,” Dennis says without thought. It feels good, and Mac grinds out a hideous, marvelous sob of pleasure. His hands fly up to Dennis’ waist, squeezing and stroking and so goddamned  _ needy _ Dennis can taste it. “You’re so sweet. Won’t even kiss me on the first date. I’ll reward you, if you can handle it?”

“This isn’t a date, man,” Mac says, but Dennis ignores him. He could say all kinds of straight people shit, but he’s about to get his dick sucked by God.

  
  


Dennis decides to make coffee while Mac naps on the couch. Dennis can hear Danielle screaming in ecstacy, crackling like a radio. Her screams are so loud he can’t hear himself cursing at her.

He sits down with his mug and turns the volume as loud as he can stand to hear it, leans back.

And then it ends, the screen zipping to black.

Dennis drives forty-five minutes to the nearest Best Buy and parks in a handicapped spot, shoves his fake pass in the window, and hops out, making sure to limp as he goes in case some white mom turns the corner of her car to see a high 37 year old jumping out of a Rover like he’s just gotten new legs. He ignores the teenager who greets him on his way out the door, helping a woman cart a TV to her car. He says, “Welcome to Best Buy” and Dennis feels nothing, says nothing.

He’s grateful to Mac for the weed because he’s too calm to punch the worker in the face that asks him if he needs help.

“I’m looking for, uh, recording equipment that’s simple, but has good quality. Especially sound quality. And, uh, an Apple computer, too. So, I guess I’ll want the camera and everything to be compatible with it.”

  
  


The roof of the bar is disgusting, there’s bird shit and broken glass and dead joints scattered, mingling with pollution and the smell of death that hangs in the Philadelphia air at about forty feet. Dennis finds his way there with the rest of Mac’s stash and gets too high to think.

He jumps when Charlie opens the door and says cheerfully, “I smelled it, I’m tired, and please.”

“Knock yourself out; it’s not mine.”

“Mac?”

Dennis nods.

“Hell yeah.” Charlie takes a drag he wasn’t prepared for and coughs. “Been awhile. This switcher tastes like Clorox.”

“Lemon. All they had.”

“Hey, man,” Charlie says, like he’s talking to a child. He makes a face and shakes his head, starts over, “You okay, Dennis? You’ve seemed kinda distant lately.”

“What? No, I haven’t.” Dennis had, in fact, been trying very hard to participate in the gang’s lives, but his day-to-day was getting harder and harder. He’s been thinking more and more about things he shouldn’t be thinking about, finding it difficult to not let his impulses control him. He knows it’s bad, he knows he needs help, but he hasn’t broken yet. He’s still going strong.

“If it means anything, I think you should take a break. From us.”

“And do what?”  _ Get help _ is the correct answer.  _ Vacation _ is the nicer one.  _ Sleep _ is the one that will happen, break or no break.

“I don’t know, do whatever Dennis usually does in his free time. Go kill people and rape women and shit. Just...clear your head, man. You’re kind of stuffing up the bar with all your angst. Even Mac doesn’t want to be around you, and he’s practically your pet…”

Charlie’s voice fades. Maybe he will go kill someone, just to feel it. Just one person, someone who doesn’t deserve to live. Someone whose life is as pointless and uninteresting as all the rest.

Then he starts thinking about sex, and then he thinks about the dream of Mac. Mac loves him, right? Mac would do anything for him? Mac would die for him, kill for him?

“Yeah, man,” Charlie says softly, and then he’s laughing, clutching his stomach as he shakes. “He’d fuckin’ murder for you. He’d kill God for your approval. It’s terrible. Oh, shit--” He falls over, and the joint, too, onto the ground. Dennis watches in disgust as he pokes out his tongue to nudge it back into his mouth.

“You’re getting it wet, dude,” Dennis smacks his arm, and Charlie sits up a moment later, blowing smoke. “You’re weird.”

“You’re weird,” Charlie retorts.

“Your face is weird,” Dennis says, and he thinks it’s a snarl, but really he’s laughing, smiling, looking up at the moon.

“I know you are but what am I?”

“See you tomorrow, Charlie.” Dennis gets up and almost tips over, to which Charlie’s response is to grab his leg, and that makes him topple onto the concrete, Charlie’s knee digging into his abdomen. He feels happiness flood him, but he knows it’s not real.

  
  


Three monitors are set up in the back office, below it is a small sound board, keyboard, and recording device. Dennis flicks all the switches, turns all the knobs. Feed of his bedroom at five angles pops up in front of him, one at a time. He rushes to put on his headphones, and there’s the music he’d left playing, David Bowie fading into Steve Winwood. The bar is closed, Dennis is alone, and he wishes he could watch himself have sex right now. The anticipation of an HD video with clear audio and the perfect shots makes heat flow under his skin. The idea that he can edit the video, make art… The sound of his door creaking open sends Dennis’ hand flying to the  _ Record _ button.

Mac pokes his head in, looking around. “Dennis?” he calls out, goes to the empty bathroom. He rests his hands at his hips and looks around in confusion. After a minute he goes to turn off the music, but he pauses as he sees Dennis’ bed, looks at it.

Dennis laughs. Mac slides onto the bed. Dennis stops laughing.

Mac sits there for a while, pensive in the soft lines on his face. Dennis turns up the volume and sits back to watch Mac pick up one of the pillows and hug it, press his face into it and take deep breaths. He’s shocked to discover that people actually smell other people’s things. He had read something about how smell affects attraction, a long time ago. In college. He’s forgotten now.

Mac puts the pillow back. Dennis assumes he’ll leave, but he doesn’t. He looks around, sees Dennis’ old camera (placed on its side, unplugged, on the dresser) and turns it around anyway. He can’t see the new equipment.

_ Holy shit. _

Mac falls onto the bed again and touches himself over his pants.  _ Those blue pieces of shit,  _ Dennis thinks,  _ he must have twelve pairs or he never does laundry _ . He triple-checks that everything is being recorded.

Mac puts his hand over his face, rubs circles into his brow, leans back and curses for a while as he undoes his pants. Mac, unable to look at himself, looks up to the ceiling. Fear flood Dennis, what if he sees?-- he doesn’t, he closes his eyes, curls his hand around himself and follows through with what he started. “Fuck, Dennis… Ah, yeah. Yeah.”

“Fuck it,” Dennis says, feels excitement fill him up to the brim as he undoes his own pants and watches. Voyeurism is at least enough to arouse him. His imagination can do the rest.

Dennis Reynolds is God.

 

 

He’s in a bad mood before the sun comes up. He can’t sleep, can’t think. Mac finds him pacing the living room at four in the morning and tries to get him to eat something, but Dennis refuses. He knows exactly what he needs, what’s keeping him on edge. He always refuses.

They argue for so long Dennis wonders if time has stopped.

He’s kneeing Mac in the stomach, one, two, three times-- before he can think, and then Mac’s writhing on the ground beneath him, and Dennis feels cold and hot at the same time; shame and rage and joy bubbling all at once in his chest.

“What the fuck what the fuck what the fuck!” Mac is shouting into the carpet, clinging to his abdomen, coughing.

He’s overwhelmed, his head swimming. He pins Mac to the ground, flat on his back, and grinds down into him, sinks his teeth into mac’s bare shoulder; and Mac moans, drawn out and slow and rich and Dennis thinks he’s finally lost his mind. He doesn’t know which one of them he means. Both of them, maybe.

While it’s happening, it’s passion and pleasure. Every muscle in his body coils and releases the tension in him. His shuddered breaths sweep through the air, make Mac feel more powerful than he ever has in his life. Afterwards, it’s sloppy and weird. Mac hides in his room, washing himself, bandaging his shoulder. Dennis sits on the floor and stews in everything he’s feeling, everything he’s thinking, sticky and gross and too stressed to feel tired. It’s only after his leg falls asleep that he gathers the strength to sit on the couch, putting his shirt beneath his naked body and curling in on himself.

He doesn’t notice the sun rise. Mac creeps out and into the kitchen at around nine and makes coffee, and Dennis waits some more until Mac slinks back and the apartment feels empty again, to get some of his own. He sits back down and looks out the window.

A blanket falls around his shoulders. Mac smiles down at him. “Feel better?” he asks. Dennis nods, grabs feebly at the fabric to bring it further around him, coffee going cold in the other hand. “Dude, you need to take a hot shower or something, your lips are purple. And you’re all gross from-- from--”

“This will be fine.” He turns away, rests his head against the couch, glares at the hot gray of Philadelphia outside the window. 

Mac leaves, says he’s going out for lunch. Dennis knows he doesn’t have any money, or if he does it’s not his own. He takes a shower, washes his face, has to clean himself up from the sex and feels guilt. It’s the first time in a while, but he feels it. It’s a personal victory.

 

 

Dennis decides not to take his pills. They dull his senses, cause bloating, make him so tired he feels like he’s in a dream.

He goes for a drive, can’t remember the last time he was excited about something, let alone driving in the city. He goes to a popular clothing store and looks around for something he would never wear. Pre-tattered t-shirts and skinny jeans, the scent of cologne and wood. There are teenagers looking aimlessly, feeling left out of social circles, hoping to find solace in an expensive pair of socks. Dennis is, too, but he hasn’t got anything to live for. Not anymore. And he can afford those Nike socks he’ll wear once before Mac takes them. He sees a hat that says “Daddy” on it and laugh to himself. Pointless. Inappropriate. Mac would throw a fit; it’s in the men’s section.

Dennis goes to the sale rack and it’s full of things that definitely should be on sale: weird shirts that look like what disgruntled celebrities wear to hide themselves from the paparazzi. Proof that they’re real people, not just machines to hollywood and slaves to capitalism. Dennis feels like a machine, but he’s his own slave.

And it all costs fifteen dollars, or more.  _ For garbage. _

He leaves, steals a pair of socks on his way out. It feels good to take, but no one is there to applaud him.

If he took a life, who would applaud him? Who would stand by and watch him feed a disgusting part of himself, the beast in the cave, an untouchable desire, and love him?

The afternoon sun beats heavily on his back. He hears people laughing and shouting, but he can’t see them. Too many alleyways, too many hiding places.

When he fails his Jekyll, can he control Hyde?

Dennis wanders around, peaking blindly through windows, and wonders if he can separate himself into two different people. Everything he dislikes about himself and everything he loves. The hero and the villain. The night and the day.

_ Now I sound like Charlie. _

He goes into a youthful café, run by a French family. Homeland memorabilia lines the windowsills and walls. Horny boys and tired girls laughing over steaming mugs and pastries.

“Bonjour! Welcome to  _ Ingénue _ ! What would you like?”

Dennis orders café au lait--and a croissant because he couldn’t resist. A window seat, by himself. Weird acoustic music that probably has lyrics but it’s just sound, muffled by chatter and coffee machines.

He’s glad to be alone for a while. An hour passes, no one looks at him. He knows because he’s looking at everyone else, waiting to catch the eye of someone vulnerable and just as lonely as himself.

Mac calls twice, sends a series of concerned text messages. Silence for a few minutes. He calls again, and this time Dennis sighs and picks up.

“Where are you?” Mac’s voice is less angry than he expects.

“Out. I’m fine. How was lunch?”

“Where are you?” Mac asks again, more insistent.

“At a coffee shop. I’m fine, man. I’ll be home soon.”

“You drove? Dude, you know you can’t when you’re taking--”

“Well I didn’t take mine today so. Leave me alone.”

“What? You have to! She said if you didn’t it would get worse!”

“Well, I’m fine. I feel great, actually. I can make my own decisions, thanks Dr. Mac.”

“Dennis--”

Dennis had thrown his change in the tip jar. He gets the attention if the barista before he leaves..

“I put my change in the tip jar,” Dennis says. “I want it back.”

“What?” She says.

“I want my change back. If you’re not going to get it for me, then I’ll do it myself.”

“If you were unsatisfied with the service, I’d be glad to tell my manager.”

Dennis laughed. “You can tell her after you give me my eighty-seven cents.”

“But--”

“Do it now, or I’ll have you fired. You hear me?”

Her hands shake as she digs around for the change. After a few seconds, Dennis scoffs and grabs a dollar. “You took too long. Have a great day.” The sound of the change falling over the countertop makes him giddy with power. He feels unstoppable.

The feeling soon fades, and he finds his car and drives to the bar. Dee is not tending, Charlie is not cleaning, Frank is not leaving, and Mac is… not there.

“Where’s Mac?”

Charlie shrugs and Dee does something weird with her face. Frank is playing pool by himself, humming to the music coming from the jukebox.

“Hello to you, too, brother,” Dee says, opening three beers. They all grab one. “He said he was going to try to get laid, and I told him to give up already, and he got all offended and walked out.”

“Why can’t he just… be gay? Why is it so bad for him? I don’t get it,” Charlie said, looking into his beer.

“He’s been brainwashed, he can’t just turn his bigotry on and off,” Dennis offers. The beer tastes bad, but it’s his favorite kind. “Are we watering down bottled beers now?”

Frank pokes his head up. “You get some damn customers in here, we wouldn’t have to!”

“Mac said he was going to get laid?”

“He says that like every day,” Charlie says. “What’s the big deal?”

Frank saunters over to the bar. “Did he say how?” Everyone blinks at him. “Well, I mean, maybe he is going to have gay sex, he’s just afraid to tell us. Maybe he’s been banging dudes left and right this whole time, and then he puts up this front to protect himself when he’s done.”

Dennis laughs too loudly. “That’s insane! The man can’t even say the word gay without getting a knot in his throat, there’s no way he’d…do that. You know?”

Everyone blinks at Dennis.

Charlie nods. “I don’t know, Frank, the man’s pretty homophobic.”

“It would explain it, though,” Dee says. “He’d overreact especially if he was really doing it.”

Dennis drains his beer and grabs himself another. They argue for the rest of the night, going from Mac to marriage to stereotypes. Dennis has had enough by 11:30 and decides he’s too wasted to drive, but too wasted to care.

He falls to his bed and his stomach aches at the sudden image of Mac in his room, right now, giving some undeserving bastard the night of his life. Mac isn’t there. He’s alone. 

Dennis rolls onto his side and curls in on himself and hopes he dreams about killing Mac. He doesn’t.


End file.
